Gott Dang Son of Gott
by MJTR
Summary: Chris Fairling, the clone of Jesus Christ, has begun his war on religion and corruption. Thomas Mckael, his bodyguard, life long friend, and believer to the bitter end, knows this is a fight he can't win. If Chris is to survive out there, only one man can bring him down to earth.
1. Chapter 1

Gott Dang Son of Gott

A Fanfic by MJTR

[[Author's Note: I have learned in the past that I'm not very good at juggling multiple projects at a time, but decided to attempt to do so again given this piece is tonally entirely different from anything else I am writing.

I recently purchased and read _Punk Rock Jesus_ by Sean Murphy. It was a $17 run of a really awesome first half of a comic and painfully subpar second half… With the expection of the scenes with Thomas McKael, who feels like about one of the only really believable character in what's supposed to be a very personal story. Even taking a lot of the religious audacity out of it (which I honestly didn't mind that much, it takes a lot to get me riled up), I felt like the comic failed to give me a protagonist I could get behind (AGAIN, leaving religious reasons out of it) and just a weird sense of, "The fuck was that all about?" Even philosophically it doesn't make much sense to me.

As a result, I decided to play with the idea of the supposed clone of Jesus Christ, and just what it'd take to instill a comedic, and I hope, thought provoking response. Enjoy!]]

"This is fucking kidnapping Tom, get me offa this God damn road! Don't you dare think I won't jump!"

"You went and pissed off onea the country's biggest talking heads in the Country Chris. This road's not the worst thing you'd have stuck your nose into."

"That self-righteous bitch had it coming! They all had it coming! And when this show gets off the ground, I'm gonna give the old man in the sky a much deserved kick in the balls!"

"There's gonna be a show. Not now. Not with the NAC lighting their torches and pitchforks. Tween them and the types you find in the holy land Chris, you're going to get yourself killed."

"Last time Jesus died in Jerusalem he got people kissing his ass for the next two thousand years! I'll bet I could break that record!"

"Yer not going on that tour!"

Thomas Mckeal was pressing on the gas of his old motorcycle harder than he ever had before, determined to outrun any media attention, doing everything in his power to keep himself, and the boy reluctantly clinging to his back, out of harm's way. He'd never been abrasive towards the boy before, never acted out of aggression. But things were never looking this bad. Clinging reluctantly to his back was the biggest celebrity on the planet. The fifteen year old child-star turned atheist anarchist, the clone of Jesus Christ, Chris Fairling.

Thomas muttered to himself about how fast times were changing. Less than a year ago the boy who was once America's most precious child had appeared at the Grammy awards, hair in a Mohawk, denouncing the audience, the country, and all of faith. Shortly thereafter he discovered The Flak Jackets: A punk rock band in need of a new singer, and began touring the country, preaching his message against the brainwashing of religion and his plan to topple its institution.

Days before their tour bus had come under attack by the riotous "New American Christians", Thomas mumbling to himself, "I remember when they just picketed…" A firefight had ensued on the highway, their leader almost killed. Thomas had pushed Chris to approach her in the hospital, insisting matters would only become worse if he didn't try to make some kind of peace. Instead, Chris had spat in her face when he assured her he'd take The Flak Jacket's message to the heart of Christianity itself, Jerusalem. He had told Thomas to take him back to The Flak Jacket's hotel. Thomas had left that behind miles ago.

Thomas would not permit him to enter Jerusalem. Not if there was to be any hope. He took a long look at the boy, still roaring and swearing at him. He'd been his protector, his guardian angel, since he was a child. Even after the boy's denouncement, even after all the violence he knew his rebellion would bring, he was still sure of who this child was. And for that reason, he needed to be protected.

"Look Chris, I'm going to cut you a deal," Thomas said. "I'm taking you to some friends of mine… Neighbors fer a bit after I moved to the states. They're good people-"

"Good 'Christian' folk I assume," Chris said with ire.

"Yeah, good Christian folk. Stay with them fer a bit. Think of it as witness protection."

"Fuck that!" Chris yelled over the motorcycle. "We gotta play this tour and you know it! You know what I have to say, and I gotta salt this wound now! I gotta be sure it doesn't heal over! These people can't forget about me!"

"Who do you think you are that they'd forget about you?" Thomas asked. "You ever heard of 'nipplegate'? That was in two-thousand fucking four, for half a second! _You_ screamed fuck you at about eighty percent of the planet's populace."

"That number's decreasing every day," Chris said with a sneer.

"Just trust me on this one Chris. Have a little…"

"Faith?" He asked bitterly. "Soon as you park this bike I'm calling the others. We're taking this tour, here and now."

"Alright then… You go right ahead." Thomas replied. "And see just how far you'll get without me."

"Are you questioning me?! You… You can't-"

"To the rest of this planet you may be the biggest celebrity who ever lived, and that's why most of the US'll let you do whatever you like so they can watch, but to me you're your mother's son. The boy I promised to protect… And I can't promise to protect you if you can't play by my rules Chris. That fight with the NAC took it too far."

"Oh, so _now_ I need your permission to do jack shit?"

"Jesus wouldn't have been a good lamb for sacrifice if he didn't listen to his old man."

"I'm not Jesus… And you're not my old man. And there's not shit I can take from any of this."

Thomas was quiet a little longer, still buzzing down the road before he asked, "Have you ever watched _Life of Brian_?"

"What's that supposed to be?"

"Look it up when you get a chance. It's a good flick."

Chris continued to protest as Thomas returned to his normal, quiet self. He only became more vocal when he saw the signs welcoming them to Texas.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me! Texas?!"

"Trust me here Chris." Thomas muttered. "Don't like faith? How about hope? Have a little hope."

Chris's yells turned to mutters as Thomas continued driving down the road. Thomas made his way off of the interstate and into the suburbs until he finally parked in front of a ranch-style home in a quiet neighborhood, address 84 Rainey Street.

"You should pat down your hair," Thomas instructed. "It's better to look presentable when you're a guest."

"Piss off," Chris replied as Thomas began knocking on the door.

After a brief quiet between the two the door was answered by an old, dignified looking man wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of glasses. His hair was combed, straight and white, he had a few, but not many, wrinkles on his face, appearing years younger than he actually was. He squinted his eyes as he looked at Thomas. "Tom? That you? I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd be here so fast."

"Fast as I could make it Hank," Thomas said before pulling Chris in front of him. "And this… Is our lord and savior."

The old man adjusted his glasses a little more as he looked down at the young man before double taking with a shocked, "Bwah!"


	2. Chapter 2

The old man, who Chris had caught was named Hank, shuffled back into the house and motioned that they follow, Thomas first, Chris second. Chris eyed the walls of the small, ranch-style home with a particular bitterness at the various generic or tacky looking paintings on the wall and periodic family photographs. He noticed the man in his younger days, accompanied by a woman with curly hair and glasses, a fat boy with a shaved head and some blonde looking young woman.

Chris had never really seen the inner workings of a normal American household, but he was sure it was the kind of place the ignorance he and The Flak Jackets battled grew like fungus. He'd been in the house mere minutes and it already left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I uhh… I thought you'd be a little later. Peggy and I were just going to eat without you. But I suppose this works out anyway." Hank said.

"Did you grill out?" Thomas asked. "You make a fine steak Hank."

"Well, it was Frito Pie night actually Tom," Chris's nose wrinkled, _White Trash at its finest_ he thought. "But Peggy insisted we don't see you very often, and you do like our steak. So that's what we are having."

"Good, good," Chris noted the ordinarily emotionless Thomas had a little smirk on his face, running his tongue over his lips. "How's Bobby doing by the way? Does he also still work the grill?"

"Oh yes, it's all going very well. We'd like to take you out to see him one of these times here. If we can."

Chris followed Hank and Thomas into a small dining room where the table was lain with freshly grilled steaks, slices of tomatoes and ears of corn among bread and butter. The woman from the photographs, several years older, sat on the opposite side of the table, adjusting her glasses as the three walked in.

"Hello there Tom," she said with a smile.

"Hello Peggy," Thomas said, pulling up a chair.

Her mood was well off until her eyes met Chris. "Oh my goodness who is this?"

"Some reality television boy Peggy," Hank said. "I don't know… Tom wasn't really specific on the phone."

"I'll explain over dinner," Thomas sighed. "If we're eating, let's eat."

"I'm a vegetarian," Chris objected.

"Stop being difficult Chris," Thomas snarled. "He isn't being serious. It's a recent development."

"Well all young men have their share of rebellions," Hank said, looking around, trying to avoid eye contact with Chris before sighing and doing so nonetheless. "Chris is your name? Pleased to meet you," he extended his hand across the table and offered it to him. "My name's Hank Hill, former proprietor of propane and propane accessories."

Chris gave the hand a long look, what could have felt like years in his mind, taking every moment to examine the old man sitting next to him, wearing a reluctant smile. He was sure of one thing, that he did not want to take the aging Texan's hand… And yet some small part of him insisted he could bear to cooperate with Thomas a little longer. If that meant getting out of the backwater town that much faster.

"Chris Fairling… Former reality show star."

"Oh goodness Hank, we have a celebrity at the table!" Peggy giggled.

Hank only rolled his eyes. "Peggy, a star on reality television is not a 'celebrity'. They're wholly different."

"I'm actually better known for my main project these days," Chris interrupted. "You may recognize the name… The Flak Jackets."

Hank starred at him for a few seconds as he served himself some steak. "Is that a clothing line? Are you one of those 'alternative models' or something."

Chris double took. He was sure if the old man hadn't recognized him from his entrance, he'd have heard of all the controversy he was stewing up. No one could be that outside the loop… Could they? He'd spent the first thirteen years of his life on a deserted island, at least he had an excuse.

"Well, would the clothing model like to say grace?" Peggy asked.

Chris turned from her and muttered, "Bite me," under his breath.

"Why don't I?" Thomas suggested. "I'll keep it good and simple. 'Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat."

Chris tried his best to ignore everything else going on at the table besides his food, which, after a few bites, he was willing to mentally admit was excellent. The steak was still good and moist, seared to perfection with just the right amount of seasoning and smoke to it, the potatoes smooth, creamy and well complimented by butter.

In spite of his efforts, he did catch some of Thomas and Hank's conversation, Hank eager to talk about Thomas's line of work as the bodyguard tried to sway the conversation away from it.

"You're looking very good by the way Hank," Thomas said. "Figured you weren't the sort for the anti-aging stuff they got on the market."

"Yeah well, I don't really like it that much." Hank said. "I wanted to grow old and gray with dignity, but when they told me I wouldn't be able to keep being foreman if I wasn't in shape, well, they didn't really leave me with a lot of options."

"Foreman? Of what, if I can ask," Thomas asked.

"Oh Tom that's right, you never heard," Peggy chuckled. "Hank volunteers at The AEHD."

"And what association is that again?" Thomas asked. "Sorry, been a while."

"The Arlen Erasing of Homelessness Department," Hank answered proudly. "We build sturdy, modest housing for those who are struggling in our community."

"Ah," Thomas said with a little smile. "Sounds good for you. Humble, sweaty… Sounds like the best thing since propane."

"Damn right," Hank said.

"How about Bobby? That boy still grilling and performing?"

Chris stopped paying attention to the conversation and tried to put everything into his eating. Hank and Thomas kept talking about a number of matters well through dinner and into dessert when Peggy served bowls of peach cobbler, and he only started to pay attention again when he felt sure they were referring to him.

"I know he's a bit rough around the edges Hank, but underneath it all Chris is a good boy. He's had some rough times… I think he might gain a thing or two from you and Peggy."

"Well," Hank said, adjusting his glasses a little, "It's a lot to take on… We haven't had anyone to look after in a while… But without Bobby at home, I suppose it does get kind of lonesome."

"And think about it Hank, you'd have one more person you could get in on your projects," Peggy added.

"I wanna clarify that I haven't consented to anything yet," Chris said bitterly.

"Why don't you two talk about it," said Thomas, getting to his feet and motioning to Chris. "Come here son, let's talk ourselves."

Chris and Thomas stood in the hallway just outside of the kitchen, talking back and forth for nearly half an hour, all Chris's arguing and Thomas's stern rebuttals. Even if he got nothing out of it, Thomas maintained, he could still use a vacation from the press. _Both_ of them could. No one would find him in Arlen, Thomas was sure.

"And even then, think about it," Thomas said, "How much bigger do you think you'll come across if you made that declaration of yours, vanished, and then appeared again. After being on camera all your life, folk are going to lose it if they just can't find you."

Chris finally gave a sigh. "They'll think I'm a pussy."

"Then prove em' wrong. They used to think you were a choir boy, then you came out guns a blazin' and now most of em' hate you. You're pretty good at defying expectations."

Chris looked back and forth at the elders in the adjacent room and Thomas, contemplating the situation and just how much choice he really had in it before he turned to his longtime friend and asked, "And if I do this… Stay here for a few weeks… You'll follow me wherever I go. You'll play by my rules, serve in my war, no questions asked?"

"No questions asked," Thomas replied.

And finally came Chris's dreaded, "Fine. Whatever."

Thomas smiled a bit more and led him back towards the kitchen.


End file.
